


Long Road Behind

by GwinnettPale



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Caught in the Act, Dry Humping, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person, Public Makeouts, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwinnettPale/pseuds/GwinnettPale
Summary: It's not the first time the Sole Survivor has fantasized about grabbing a certain grubby sniper by the collar of his ragged coat and shoving her tongue in his mouth. But it might be her last opportunity to act on it.





	Long Road Behind

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:** MacCready’s storyline in Fallout 4  
>  **Content warning:** Brief allusions to suicidal thoughts, references to canon-typical violence.  
> 

You scan the backs lining the bar and pick his threadbare duster out of the crowd almost immediately. It’s easy to spot, since it’s missing the entire left sleeve. You asked about that once, but it was ages ago now, back before you knew him well, so all you got in reply was a brusque grunt.

"Mac! Hey!"

Your voice carries over the chatter of the patrons and the blare of the jukebox. Mac turns and his face lights up when he sees you. You feel yourself beaming back at him as you make your way over. It's silly. It's been less than twenty four hours since you parted ways. Him to Goodneighbor to find out about caravans heading south to Capital Wasteland. You to Diamond City to offload some loot, check in with Valentine and take a long overdue bath. You paid Becky Fallon an extortionate amount of caps to launder all your gear and John – ever the miracle worker – managed to transform the rat's nest on your head into a sleek, practical bob. Walking into the Dugout in a new T-shirt and freshly-washed jeans, you feel more human than you have in weeks.

Mac's had a bath too, by the look of him; his cheeks are shining pink. Although this could possibly be attributed to the beer. He's on his third, at least. Vadim winks at you and shoots a Gwinnett Pilsner your way. You always get your first on the house at the Dugout, ever since you sorted out that whole mess with Travis. 

"You’re late,” says Mac, but there’s no real bite behind his irritation. He’s still smiling with one side of his mouth.

“I can see that,” you say, nodding to the empty bottles lined up at his elbow.

“Yeah well, Robert Joseph MacCready waits for no man. Or woman. Especially when there’s beer involved.” 

You open your mouth to ask how his business went in Goodneighbor but you're cut off as he blurts out, "You look nice. Real nice. By the way."

Now you’re the one turning pink, and it must be particularly obvious without layers of grime and dirt obscuring your complexion. Your laugh is nervous, too high-pitched, and you take a long swig of your beer to hide the fact that you have no idea how to field the compliment.

"Yeah, I had a bath. Got a haircut too." 

"I noticed,” he says, “But it's more than that. It’s… wait…"

He brings his face closer to yours, squinting in the dingy light.

“Since when do you have freckles?”

Now your laugh is genuine.

“Since I was a little kid?”

“I never noticed before.”

“That probably means I’m the cleanest I’ve been since we met, which is… worrying, to say the least.”

"Hey, no judgement here. Once I spent an entire week wandering around with mutant blood caked in my beard.”

“Ew, what, deliberately?”

“Yeah, deliberately,” he says, full of indolent sarcasm, “It’s the secret to my youthful good looks.”

“It seems to be working pretty well, but it’s got nothing on Surprise Cryonic Preservation.”

He laughs loudly at that, displaying a few grey-brown teeth. He probably got off pretty easy, considering what his diet must have been like growing up. Like everything else about him, his messed-up smile has grown on you over the months you’ve been travelling together.

You can't really pinpoint when it started to feel easy with Mac. All you know for sure is that after a certain point, you started to find his surliness endearing rather than maddening, and all the needling and snapping at each other began to feel more like companionable teasing. You can't remember the first time he wordlessly offered you a cigarette or the first terrible joke he cracked or the exact moment you stopped thinking of him as a hired gun, and started thinking of him as a friend. But now it doesn't really matter, because you're bantering about Wasteland skincare products and your blush hasn't quite left your face and something flutters in your stomach every time he laughs. You can't remember the last time you just stood at a bar and had a drink with a guy. A cute guy. A cute guy who hasn't taken his eyes off you since you got here.

You shake your head slightly, as though to dislodge the thought. It's the beer. You've almost finished your first but another has materialized by your hand and Vadim is doing a terrible job of pretending not to watch you from the other end of the bar. Internally, you roll your eyes at this. He obviously thinks there's something going on, but then given Vadim's penchant for matchmaking, you're surprised he's not already leaning over the greasy counter, forcing your heads together to make you kiss.

And there it is. Now you’re thinking about kissing Mac. Not the first time you’ve entertained the thought, but the urge usually takes you at wholly inappropriate moments, like when you’re hunkered down in a dank basement or stinking alley, hiding from one of the various groups of people who want you dead. Here, in a noisy bar, with clean hair, a cold beer in your hand and his face inches away from yours, it almost seems like a good idea. It would be so easy to lean forward and close the gap.

He’s still talking and you haven’t heard a word he’s said even though you're staring at his mouth. You down almost half your beer in one go and then butt in with the question you've been meaning to ask since you arrived. 

"So, what's the word? Did you manage to find a caravan going south?"

He smiles, but there's something strained behind it. You raise an eyebrow in inquiry.

"Yeah, I did. Daisy really came through for me."

"Mac!" you say, hitting him lightly on the arm. "I thought you were holding out on me because there was bad news. That's great!" 

"Yeah... it is, isn't it? I've got a good feeling about this. I think this cure is the real deal."

"Let's drink to that!" You clink your bottle against his and raise it to the ceiling. Mac follows suit, and then tips his head back and finishes his beer with an almost-frantic gulp. You're not far behind him and you're already feeling a little tipsy. _Slow down, genius._

"So," he says, "The caravan leaves at noon tomorrow from outside the main gates."

"Great. The sooner the better, right?"

"Right. But it’s not too early, which is good. I was worried I’d be getting up at the crack of dawn to join them."

You feel your smile tighten across your face like a mask. Mac avoids your eyes as he keeps talking, he’s almost babbling, like he feels the need to justify himself.

"It's a tough road and honestly, I could sleep for a week, but if I don't get going now there might not be another reliable caravan until next month. And it's not that I don't trust Daisy, I do, and if she says these traders are good people, I believe her, and initially I thought I'd stick around to rack up some more caps so I can keep paying the doctor until he's fully recovered, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised it has to be me. Now that I finally have a cure in my hand, I can't let it out of my sight. What if something happened on the road and I wasn’t there? I'd never forgive myself. I can't blow his only shot."

"Of course," you say faintly. Because of course he's going home to deliver the cure himself. _Did you really think he was going to stay in the Commonwealth while his sick son waits for him hundreds of miles away?_ says a vicious, mocking little voice in the back of your head. _Did you really think he was going to hang around for... what? For you?_ Apparently you did, because you feel totally blindsided. Mac doesn’t seem to notice. He's still talking a mile a minute.

"And they're going to hire me on as a guard so I'll be making caps on the way, and that should be enough to keep the little man in care until he's feeling better. I can't believe I've been gone nearly a year. I'm finally going to see my kid again!"

You wince at that and Mac sees your smile falter. He looks puzzled, and then grimaces, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"Shit. I mean... well shit, I guess I do mean shit. That was… I didn’t mean to..."

"It's fine," you say softly, wiping beer off your upper lip with the back of your hand, "You get to be excited about seeing your son." 

“Yeah, but I don’t get to throw it in your face. I’m sorry." 

"Hey. It's fine." You force some brightness into your tone. "I'm happy for you. I really am."

And you are. If you're being honest with yourself, the hot heavy lump of misery that has settled in the pit of your stomach is only partially due to being reminded that you haven't had a new lead on Shaun in weeks. You draw in on yourself and away from Mac, creating a few extra inches of space between his chest and yours. He's flushed, scratching the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. Seconds of silence drag out between you.

Abruptly, you decide that you're not going to let this ruin the evening. It’s so rare to have something to feel good about in this horrible trash pile of a world. Tonight was supposed to be about the two of you, celebrating a job well done. So it's a farewell party now? Fine. Then you’re going to make it a proper send-off. Mac is a good friend, one of your only friends, you've been through a lot together and you're going to miss having him around. Of course you feel sad. That's natural and normal, and not necessarily anything to do with beer-fuelled fantasies about grabbing him by the lapels of his stupid coat and shoving your tongue in his mouth.

Mac signals for two more beers from Vadim. Your smile still feels brittle, but you’re determined to break the awkward silence. You decide to ask about Duncan. You realise that you don't know much about the kid beyond his illness. He's five, maybe six now? What's he into? Does he like comics like his dad? 

But before you can formulate the question, Mac turns to you. He's flustered. 

"Hey, it's hot in here, right? And too loud. Do you want to... I don't know, take a walk?" 

You nod your assent. You grab the beers, he hoists his rifle onto his shoulder and you head out into the evening. The air is cool, winter's chill still lingering, and you pull your jacket around your shoulders as you fall into step beside Mac. Diamond City almost manages to look beautiful at this hour. The last slanting rays of the sun are dazzling orange on the corrugated metal rooftops and walls, blinding you to the grime and rust underneath.

You gravitate towards the Wall in wordless consensus. It's quiet here. There are a few silent huddled shapes under the shelters beside the mutfruit trees. You drift around to the back of the Science Centre, to a lone bench that looks out across the still water of the reservoir, the gently chugging purifier and the derelict stands beyond. Mac sits down next to you. Right next to you. Smell-the-beer-and-cigarettes-on-his-breath next to you. You try not to read into it. You've sat together like this dozens of times. You've shared mattresses in tiny shacks. He's stood flush against your back, hands guiding yours as he showed you how to sight a rifle properly. Once you were squashed together in a pitch black closet for two hours, so close you could feel his heart beating against your shoulder. This is nothing. You sip your beer and pretend you're not aware of his arm slung across the bench behind you. 

"So, can we talk?" he asks, as the silence starts to stretch to breaking point. 

"I think we better. What's eating you?" 

"I..." He's scratching at the label on his beer bottle like it's personally wronged him, making a visible effort to collect his thoughts. Then he lets out a snort of frustration.

"Mac?"

"I had all these things I planned to say to you, but then I had five beers because I was nervous and now it’s all mixed up."

"What things?" you ask, trying to keep your tone casual.

He goes to take another swig of beer, thinks better of it and takes a deep breath instead.

"Look, you already know that meeting you is the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. Definitely since I came to the ‘Wealth. And not just because we work well together. It's more than that. You keep putting your neck on the line for me, and I don't really understand why, but I want you to know that I appreciate it a heck of a lot. I'm beginning to realize how much I missed having someone I could depend on."

"Of course you can depend on me. We're friends. That's how friends work."

"I think of us as more than just friends..." he says, and your breath stops in your throat.

"You're my family out here," he continues. He's fumbling in a pouch at his belt, so he doesn't notice that you've frozen beside him. "And I don't say that lightly. But since I'm heading back south for a while, well, I wanted to give you something. So you don't forget me."

"Yeah, because the last few weeks have been pretty unmemorable," you say, smirking to hide the confusing clamour of emotions in your chest.

He avoids your eyes as he hands you something. You hold it up to the fading light. It's a little wooden figurine; a soldier, wearing a very familiar cap and holding a rifle over his shoulder. The wood around the mouth has been carved with tiny delicate strokes to give the impression of a beard.

"Did you make this?" you ask.

"Do I look like the artistic type? Nah, Lucy made it."

You look at him in shock and then back at the wooden soldier.

"Mac, I can't take this." You try to press it back into his hand but he draws away.

"It's yours," he says, "I want you to have it. It's supposed to be me, obviously. I... I told her I had taken work as a soldier. Seemed easier than explaining that I was a hired killer. I kept promising myself that I'd tell her truth one day, but... well, I never got the chance."

You don't know what to say to that. You know how he lost Lucy. You will never forget the distant look of horror in his eyes as he described her being torn apart by ferals. They came on so fast, there was no way to get a clean shot off, especially not with his two year-old son bawling and flailing in his arms. So he held Duncan tight against his chest and ran, as hard and as fast he could, her screams still ringing in his ears.

“Took everything I had to get us out of there. We shouldn't have made it, but we did, somehow, just dumb luck, I don't know. But for a long time, I thought... I thought maybe it would have been better if we'd died down there with her.”

There was nothing to say to that either, so you sat in silence. Then, after a while, you started to tell him about that day in the Vault. You described how it felt to wake up, freezing, nauseous, totally disoriented, everything slow and spinning and dream-like. Then the jolt of pure panic as the scene in front of you came into focus; your husband, two strangers, a struggle, _they're trying to take my baby, oh God, Nate, please don't let them, don't let them take Shaun._ Your voice wasn't working, but it was like Nate could hear you, because he was shouting, fighting, eyes wild, holding onto Shaun with all his strength, so brilliantly alive. Then the man you now know as Kellogg calmly put a bullet in his head, and your husband was gone, winked out like a candle, while you screamed and pounded uselessly on the door of your glass prison. It had been the first and only time you told someone exactly how it happened, sparing none of the details. Because you wanted Mac to understand. You know the guilt. You know those sweet daydreams of death. But you also know about holding on because your kid still needs you. And because your kid is all you have left of them.

That night, you shared a bottle of moonshine and blacked out together in the VIP room at The Third Rail. You haven't talked about it since. It didn't feel like there was anything left to say. 

You stare at the little soldier in your hands. The wood is worn smooth and shiny in places. You imagine Mac's long calloused fingers toying with it inside his pocket, taking comfort in the familiar flow of its contours on miserable overnight stake-outs and long dusty days on the road. 

"I know it seems like a strange reward for risking your life," Mac is saying, "But I thought..."

"If it's important to you, then it's important to me," you reply, firmly, "Thank you."

"No, thank you," he says, "For everything, but especially for being a shoulder to lean on when I really… really frickin’ needed it. I'm going to miss having you around."

The last sentence comes out as a rushed mumble and Mac punctuates with it a long gulp of beer.

"Feeling's mutual, buddy," you say, "Who's going to yell at me for picking up duct tape when you're gone?"

"You can look at the soldier and imagine my disapproving face. I swear, you're worse than any scavver."

"I'm resourceful. Besides, it's not for me, you know that, right? It's for Sturges, up in Sanctuary. The man goes through the stuff so fast, I'd swear he's building entire walls out of duct tape and nothing else."

Mac doesn't laugh. He's looking at you with an expression that's alarmingly close to concern.

"Mac, what?"

"It's just... this is what's so amazing about you." His eyes slide away from yours again. "Everything that's happened to you, the hell you've been through, and you're still always finding ways to help out other people. Out there, in the Wasteland, it’s easier just to say screw everyone else, I’m looking out for number one. And it’s easy to tell yourself you don’t have a choice, that you’re just doing what it takes to survive. But you… look, I know I give you a hard time about it, falling for sob stories and picking up strays when we could be making money. But the truth is it's admirable. _You're_ admirable. This world turns people into selfish assh- it turns people selfish. But you lost everything and you're still trying to be a good person. I swear, you're starting to make me think that helping people out is its own reward. Some of the time, anyway."

At least half of this speech is muttered in the direction of his lap in a tone that suggests that he's been forced to deliver it at gun point. He looks so disgruntled that you start to laugh. You can't help it and once you start you can't stop. Mac immediately turns defensive, upper lip curling, shoulders up around his ears.

"OK, I thought we were having a moment, but whatever. Forget it." 

"I'm sorry," you say, meaning it. He relaxes slightly as your mirth ebbs to a more normal level, "And we are totally having a moment. I'm not laughing _at_ you, I promise."

"You're not laughing with me either," he says, still terse. 

"I'm sorry. Look, I'm laughing... because... I don't know, because I'm happy?"

He looks hard at you then, almost suspicious, as though this is an elaborate joke at his expense.

"You're happy?"

"Yeah. I guess that's weird, considering..." You wave your arms, vaguely yet expansively, attempting to encompass the entire Commonwealth in the gesture. "But I am happy. Right here and right now anyway." 

He's staring at you, brows furrowed. The last of the daylight is catching his dark blue eyes, making them gleam, and maybe it's the beer, but the intensity of his gaze is making you feel giddy.

" _You_ make me happy, Robert Joseph MacCready." 

He’s still staring at you as though you’ve started speaking French. _Fuck it, it’s now or never_. You slide your hand onto his leg as you turn to face him. You hold his gaze. No mistaking your intentions now.

The furrow in his brow deepens and for one awful moment, you think he's about to brush you off or retort with something cutting. But then, all at once, you feel his arm drop onto your shoulder and his eyes are closing and his mouth is on yours. You hear a beer bottle clatter to the ground as he grabs you by the waist, pulling you tight against him. Clumsily, you slide an arm around his neck, your Pip-Boy knocking his hat off in the process. His body is warm and taut, thrumming with the pent-up energy of all those things that have gone unsaid between you for so long, and you press hard into the embrace, keeping a bruising grip on this thigh, trying to communicate how badly you want this, how you've been waiting for the right moment for weeks now. You fail to suppress a needy little moan as he deepens the kiss. His lips are chapped and rough on yours, and his beard is scratching your chin, but then his tongue meets yours, firm and deliberate, and there’s nothing except the taste and smell of him, stale beer and cigarettes, gun oil and road dust, and something undercutting it all that's just him, just Mac.

It’s sort of perfect, really. For a few minutes, you can pretend you're two young lovers with normal, safe, easy lives, having a furtive make-out session on a deserted bench as the last of the sun’s light seeps out of the world.

You feel his hands on your face. Gently, he tilts your head back so he can look at you.

"Rhea," he says in a low whisper, and hearing your name in his mouth makes you melt a little, "Is this OK? Is this what you want?”

His eyes are glazed and he’s slightly breathless, but there’s genuine concern in his tone.

“Yes. This is exactly what I want. Why have we stopped kissing?”

With obvious reluctance, he disentangles your arms from around his neck. 

“Look, I hate to bring it up, but I have to… I just thought…” 

He screws up his face as though he’s trying to swallow something bitter.

“What about Nate? You still love him, don't you?”

Your mouth falls open but no words follow. You've imagined this moment so many times, in so many different ways, but none of your daydreams ever ended with a blunt question about your feelings for your dead husband. You squirm a little and Mac withdraws, dropping his hands into his lap. You stare into the dark stillness of the water and let yourself think about Nate. You summon his smile, his gentle snoring. The serious methodical way he used to carry out every task, no matter how banal. His tuneless humming. The irrepressible pride and excitement in his eyes whenever Shaun burped or gabbled or grabbed at his fingers. The strong coffee on his breath when you kissed him good morning, that final morning. You take these things out and examine them in a way you've rarely allow yourself to since Vault 111 spat you out into the Wasteland, terrified and traumatized and utterly alone. Mac says nothing.

"I still love Nate," you say eventually, "I think I probably always will. Does that bother you?"

He takes a few moments to consider this.

"No," he says, "I mean, I still miss Lucy to death. Right up until I met you, I didn't think it was going to be a problem."

"I don't think it's a problem. Maybe if I didn't know how to it feels to lose... to lose _that_ person. But I do. It's sort of fucked, but I think that's why this works. Why _we_ work."

"I guess. We're sort of like two sides of the same coin."

"Yeah, exactly."

Doubt is still playing across his features.

"But I lost Lucy years ago. It stills hurts, but it's... bearable. You and Nate..."

"Nate's been dead for years." You're surprised at how calm your tone is.

"Yeah, but you only woke up-"

" _Mac_. I'm here. And you're here. That's what matters, right?" 

He nods, but there’s still something bothering him. He’s staring out over the water. You reach out and squeeze his hand. He doesn’t resist but he doesn’t respond either.

“Hey... do _you_ want this?”

He pulls his hand away from yours and gropes under the bench for the remainder of his beer. He downs the dregs and then flings the empty bottle out into the water. It breaks the surface with a soft smack, bobs briefly and then disappears from sight with a gentle glugging sound. Then he inhales deeply, his fists balled in his lap as though bracing himself for a blow. 

“I want this. I’ve wanted this for ages. But… dammit. Rhea, I’m falling for you. Big time. Have been practically since we met. You’re making me feel things I thought I’d never feel again. So, if this is just, you know, physical for you, a distraction or a bit of fun or whatever… well, I can’t do it. Because I love you. So there. I’m sorry. It is what it is.”

He slumps back then, folding his arms and keeping his gazed fixed straight ahead. At that moment, the stadium lights clunk on and flood the crumbling stands. In the light reflecting off the water, you can see that his mouth is set in that defiant scowl you’ve come to know so well. 

“Mac." Your voice cracks slightly as you say his name. From the tumult of emotions in your chest, one feeling has surfaced with perfect with clarity.

Warily, he finds your eyes, ready for the worst, as always. 

“I feel the same way. I love you. So there.”

He looks so stunned that you almost start laughing again, but manage to tamp it down. Instead, you lean in and kiss his cheek. Then you bring your mouth to his ear, feeling him shudder as your lips brush the sharp line of his cheekbone. For a few seconds, you hover there, breathing him in, listening to your own pulse roaring in your ears. He's animal-tense, exhaling slowly, just like he does when he's about to fire off a tricky long-range shot. 

"And I want you." Your voice is low with desire. "Right now." 

He doesn’t need a second invitation. He lets out a quiet groan, a mixture of relief and lust, as he pulls back to capture your mouth in a kiss again. He’s rougher this time, hands inside your jacket, thumbs digging into your hips, his tongue shoving hard against yours. You give as good as you get, refusing to let him dominate the kiss completely, and it's just like the relentless back-and-forth teasing that drives so much of your friendship, neither of you willing to let the other have the last word or the upper hand. Eventually you have to break apart for air, and he's grinning, that cocksure grin that used to drive you mad with irritation, and now drives you mad in an entirely different way. 

You grab him by the lapels of his duster and drag him back in for more. You nip at his bottom lip and he responds with a low growl of approval, so you bite again, then let out a mortifying squeak as he squeezes your ass hard in retaliation. You break apart again, laughing breathlessly this time. Your arms are tight around his shoulders, hands stroking his neck, carding through his hair, but you want more, you want closer, you want all of him at once. 

Mac obviously shares the sentiment; abruptly, possessively, he yanks you into his lap. You throw one knee over his legs so you’re straddling him and then you feel his tongue on your neck and his hand sliding up under your shirt, fingertips brushing your nipple through the worn fabric of your bra. You shiver with pleasure, arching back to expose more of your neck to his questing mouth. 

“God, you’re such a knockout,” he says, murmuring the words into the soft skin just below your jaw, “Do you have any idea how good it is to finally touch you?”

“I might have an idea,” you say. He's aroused, pressing against you, hard and hot through the rough denim of your jeans. You rock your hips back and forth a little, and hear him inhale sharply through his teeth. You rock harder and he huffs eagerly in response, grinding up against you, trying to match your rhythm. His mouth finds your neck again and now he's unabashedly sucking the sweet spot just above your collarbone. It's definitely going to leave a mark and you don't care. You can feel yourself getting wetter by the second. You’re about to drop your head to whisper something filthy and encouraging into his ear, but at that moment, you’re half-blinded by a beam of unforgiving white light. 

“The hell is going on over there?”

Your vision starts to adjust and you can just about make out the dome of a helmet and the grill of a face guard hovering above a flashlight. The beam settles on Mac’s face and he scrunches up his eyes against the glare.

“We're just sharing a cigarette, obviously,” he calls, which causes you to bury your face in his shoulder to hide your giggle-snort. 

“Hey merc, this isn’t Goodneighbor. We don’t want no peep shows on our streets.”

One part of you is deeply embarrassed to be caught dry-humping on a public bench. But another, more juvenile part of you thinks the whole thing is hilarious, especially because Mac has frozen in the middle of squeezing your breast.

“Only a show if there's an audience,” you say pointedly. It’s not really funny, but you can feel Mac shaking with suppressed laughter underneath you.

The flashlight finds your face.

“Oh, it’s you. Shoulda guessed." He sounds more exasperated than angry. “Listen, I don’t know what goes on in those vaults, but here we got rules against public indecency. So get a room. Any room. When I come by next, you can be gone or you can spend the night in a cell. Your call.” 

The flashlight swings away, but then abruptly swings back to catch you in its beam again.

“That’s two cells,” he adds, “Separate. Not together. Two.”

“Understood, officer,” you say, almost choking on your laughter. 

He grunts and moves on. Once he’s a safe distance away, you collapse in a fit of giggles. Mac is laughing so hard that he’s practically wheezing. 

“Oh man,” he says, once he can speak again, “ _Public indecency_. Diamond City is something else.”

By now, it's fully dark, but his smile is like sunlight on your face. _This feels right_ , you think; the warmth of his hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair, his smell, the laughter still dancing in his eyes, the content little noise he makes as he nuzzles into your neck.

 _Tonight might be the last time you ever see him_ , says the vicious little voice in the part of your brain that’s not utterly preoccupied by the heat pooling between your legs. You shove the thought aside.

“So,” he asks, fingers dancing along the waistband of your jeans, “Do you want to take this somewhere… more private?”

He's clearly trying to sound suave, but there's more than a hint of bashfulness behind the question, and it’s so endearing that you duck your head to kiss him briefly.

“Definitely. I took a room in the Dugout…”

You clamber off his lap with as much grace as you can muster, thinking about Room 2, which somehow manages to be completely airless while still letting in every single sound and smell from the bar. Not ideal, but privacy is a scarce commodity in the Commonwealth and it’s not like Diamond City is brimming with other options. 

_Unless…_

“Actually, I might have a better idea,” you say.

“Yeah?” says Mac, rising from the bench and slipping his arms around you from behind so he can continue nosing at your neck.

“It might involve some mild breaking and entering, but it’ll be definitely be more private than the Dugout. And probably smell less like an armpit.”

“I’m game.”

You spot his hat lying on the ground and stoop to pick it up. 

“OK,” you say, “But I do have one condition.”

“What?” he asks earnestly.

“I’m going to have to demand that you swear like an adult in the bedroom.”

“You mean it's _not_ sexy if I tell you how badly I want to frick you?”

You go to whack him with his own hat, but he catches your wrist, spinning you around and dragging you in for another kiss, urgent and messy. You indulge yourself for a minute or two, but gently push him away before things start to get really... indecent.

“We better get moving."

"Whatever you say, boss." He sounds as dazed as you feel. You carefully place his hat back on his head and retrieve his rifle from where he propped it up against the bench. He kisses you again as you press it back into his hands, but it's different this time. Softer, slower, almost a question. _We're really doing this, huh?_ You can only smile in response. 

You start slipping towards the stands, sticking to the shadows out of habit, with Mac trailing close behind you, just like you do when you’re on a job. Except this time his fingers are twined lightly through yours and you’re both still giddy. Drunk on something far more potent than beer.

**Author's Note:**

> It always bothered me that MacCready is like, “ _Hey, I know my son is dying alone in Capital Wasteland, but I’m just going to give the cure to some random caravan headed that direction so I can run around the Commonwealth indefinitely with the Sole Survivor, who is now apparently the only thing in this world I care about even though my entire affinity arc is based on how much I love my son?_ ” Also still salty that his romance scene [is essentially this](http://izzlerizzle.tumblr.com/post/134107114835/still-bitter-about-awkward-romance-of-the-cute).
> 
> So, I decided to write a fic that changed things up a bit, but because I have no self-control is it now three chapters long and also definitely part of a wider story featuring my Sole Survivor, Rhea. Also, Mac is kind of hard to write because he’s a grumpy bastard but also a big sap once he gets going? ANYWAY, thanks for reading!


End file.
